“All you can do now is the obvious. Hit the Talinese with all your archers as they cross, then all your foot as soon as their front ranks touch dry land. Keep the cavalry here to at least hold up the Thousand Swords when they show. Hope to break Foscar quickly, while his feet are in the river, then turn to the mercenaries. They won’t stick if they see the game’s against them. But breaking Foscar…” She watched the great body of men forming up into lines as wide as the wide ford, more columns belching from the Imperial road to join them. “If Orso thought you had a chance at it he’d have picked a commander more experienced and less valuable. Foscar’s got more than twice your numbers on his own, and all he has to do is hold you.” She peered up the slope. The Gurkish priests sat observing the battle not far from the Styrian ladies, their white robes bright in the sunlight, their dark faces grim. “If the Prophet sent you a miracle, now might be the time.”

“Alas, he sent only money. And kind words.”

Monza snorted. “You’ll need more than kind words to win today.”

“We’ll need,” he corrected, “since you fight beside me. Why do you fight beside me, by the way?”

Because she was too tired and too sick to fight alone anymore. “Seems I can’t resist pretty men in lots of trouble. When you held all the cards I fought for Orso. Now look at me.”

“Now look at us both.” He took in a long breath, and gave a happy sigh.

“What the hell are you so pleased about?”

“Would you rather I despaired?” Rogont grinned at her, handsome and doomed. Maybe the two went together. “If the truth be known, I’m relieved the waiting is over, whatever odds we face. Those of us who carry great responsibilities must learn patience, but I have never had much taste for it.”

“That’s not your reputation.”

“People are more complicated than their reputations, General Murcatto. You should know that. We will settle our business here, today. No more delays.” He twitched his horse away to confer with one of his aides, and left Monza slumped in her saddle, arms limp across the bow, frowning up towards Menzes Hill.

She wondered if Nicomo Cosca was up there, squinting towards them through his eyeglass.

Cosca squinted through his eyeglass towards the mass of soldiery on the far side of the river. The enemy, though he held no personal rancour towards them. The battlefield was no place for rancour. Blue flags carrying the white tower of Ospria fluttered above them, but one larger than the others, edged with gold. The standard of the Duke of Delay himself. Horsemen were scattered about it, a group of ladies too, by the look of things, ridden out to watch the battle, all in their best. Cosca fancied he could even see some Gurkish priests, though he could not imagine what their interest might be. He wondered idly whether Monzcarro Murcatto was there. The notion of her sitting side-saddle in floating silks fit for a coronation gave him a brief moment of amusement. The battlefield was most definitely a place for amusement. He lowered his eyeglass, took a swig from his flask and happily closed his eyes, feeling the sun flicker through the branches of the old olive trees.